


Mortise

by goldearring (leoandsnake)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Sex, Fingering, First Time Together, M/M, Oral Sex, Pining, Relationship Talks, Slow Burn Romance, substance withdrawal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-03-26 15:05:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3855058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leoandsnake/pseuds/goldearring
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One late night at Skyhold, Cullen confesses his attraction to Dorian. Their chemistry is realized quickly afterward, but it takes a while after that for them - mutually oblivious as they are -  to realize the full extent of their feelings for each other. Varric and the Inquisitor try to help, badly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

Cullen isn’t sure where he’s going. Lights twinkle at the corners of his vision and the liquor he drank sits in his chest, heating him from the inside. Since he stopped taking lyrium, he’s had a sense of being weighed down, like it’s taking that much more effort for his blood to chug through his veins. But alcohol has given that weight a purpose and a warmth. For once, he feels comforted by it.

Up stairs and then up stairs again. He realizes with a jolt halfway up the second set that this is not the way to his office and quarters.

He’s going to Dorian. As soon as he thinks this, whether it’s true or he was really just lost, the warmth intensifies almost painfully -- a sharp insistent prickle in his loins and the sensitive spots of his body, his earlobes and lips and fingertips. He stops walking up the stairs and rubs his temples. He could turn around now. Down the stairs and over the battlements. Into his office.

Climb the ladder, go to bed.

Go to _bed_ , Cullen.

No, he’ll keep walking. He’s filled with defiance at the nasty little voice in his head that he can’t help but associate with lyrium, and Meredith. He’s _friends_ with Dorian! He’s drunk, and tired of trading war stories, and wants to come visit his friend.

Cullen saw Dorian earlier, when he slipped out of the tavern. Varric, Bull and Evelyn lowed affectionate rudeness at him. “We don’t kill a dragon every day!” Evelyn called.

“Yes, exactly! Thus, I am completely exhausted! I’ll consider coming back to join you later.”

“Booooo, Sparkler. I can’t believe _you’re_ turning down a drink.”

“Oh, the hell with you, dwarf,” Dorian said, laughing and disappearing out the door.

Cullen exchanged a small smile with him as he left. He had blood splatters up and down his armor and over his skin, which glowed with exertion even hours after they’d returned from the Hinterlands. His lips were dark and rosy in the low light.

Cullen wanted to touch him then. He wants to touch him now. He wants to feel the soft press of their bodies together. Dorian’s skin is so warm. They’ve brushed hands a few times playing chess; the rush of heat shocks Cullen every time. His own body runs cold, colder still since they came to Skyhold. Since he stopped taking _it._

Is it too late to turn around? To just… go to bed?

The answer seems to be yes. He’s at the top of the stairs now. To his relief, Dorian is completely alone. Enchanter Fiona has gone to bed. Her Tranquil is nowhere to be seen. The only sound is Dorian flipping pages and Leliana’s ravens cooing overheard.

“Hello,” Cullen says. Immediately he wonders where the word came from. Surely he didn’t intentionally open his mouth and say something as banal as “hello”.

Dorian turns and smiles, a lovely flash of white in the darkness that makes Cullen's heart clench. Cullen hopes his face is red with liquor in a general way, and doesn't look especially flushed in the wake of that smile.

“How is it down there?”

“They’re still going strong,” Cullen says, walking forward and leaning against the wall. “When I left, I think Cassandra was on her way to stop Bull challenging the Inquisitor to drinking competitions.”

“That could end rather badly,” Dorian says. “Although she has drank _me_ under the table on several occasions. So, you came up here just for a visit?”

He gives Cullen a book to hold as he reshelves a few others. It’s open to a specific page. Cullen glances down and is befuddled.

It must show on his face, because Dorian makes a noise of amusement. “That’s in an ancient dialect of Tevene.”

“Ahh. Uh, to answer your question, yes. I suppose I got here sort of by accident. I was wandering.”

“Our illustrious commander, drunk and wandering the castle with that sad look on his face? The troops must be in shambles, with their guiding light so far fallen.”

“Well, our illustrious Herald is drunk and theatrically re-enacting a dragon fight with our Ben-Hassrath mercenary leader, so hopefully their attention is off me for the moment. I don’t look _that_ sad, do I?”

“Downtrodden, then.”

“The alcohol isn't hitting me well. Could you, ah…”

Dorian knits his eyebrows. “Could I… ?”

Cullen gives a clumsy, vague gesture. “Minister some… spirit magic?”

Dorian laughs heartily, takes the book back from him and shelves it after inserting a bookmark.

“I can’t believe a templar is asking me to perform spirit magic on him. The South continues to surprise. Will it have any effect?”

Cullen moves into the small alcove and sits down in Dorian’s plush chair. He feels a head rush and closes his eyes.

“Actually, yes,” he says. His mouth feels tense. Several difficult emotions are moving through him. “Almost all of my immunity to magic is gone now.”

When he opens his eyes again, Dorian has come close to him and seems to want to say something, then think better of it. He places his hand very near to Cullen’s head, almost touching him but not quite, and Cullen feels the chill of magic seeping into his skull. He can’t stand Dorian so close but hovering just above his skin and covers Dorian’s hand with his own, pulling it flush with his head. If Dorian finds this surprising, he doesn’t let on.

Very quickly his head clears, and the warmth in his veins and bones deepens. He suddenly feels very bold.

“Better?”

“Much,” Cullen breathes. He hesitates before diving recklessly forward. “Can I speak frankly?”

“No, by all means, lie to me,” Dorian says with a smile in his voice.

Cullen’s lip twitches but he doesn’t laugh, which has the effect of sobering Dorian. His hand is still on Cullen’s head, mostly because Cullen is still holding it there.

“I have another reason for coming up here tonight,” he says. “I did want your company… but I’m afraid it’s not as innocent as that. As simple, I should say.”

Now that he’s actually saying it and Dorian is here in front of him, he starts to fumble for the right words. They seem just out of reach. His nerves, the constant low ebb of pain he endures these days, the alcohol and the heady effect of magic all conspire to ruin sentences before he even says them.

“I, um. I’ve had… I’ve been having… some feelings toward you.”

Dorian’s hand slips out from underneath Cullen’s and comes to rest reassuringly on his shoulder. His other hand forms a loose fist and he rests his knuckles against Cullen’s right thigh.

“Feelings?” he says quietly.

Cullen’s gut is going wild at his touch. There is a center of heat inside him raging so out of control, it could forge swords. All he wants to do is touch Dorian. His hands are clasped loosely between his legs and dangle there useless, like a corpse’s would.

“Feelings inappropriate to a friendship.”

Cullen forces himself to make eye contact. Dorian’s eyes are glowing softly in the lamplight. His expression is neutral in a forced-looking way, like he’s waiting for more information before he’ll let his face react.

“It’s been such agony, being around you,” Cullen breathes. “I’ve just… I couldn’t go any longer without telling you. I didn’t want to mislead you.”

Dorian’s hand slides up to his neck, cupping his jaw. Cullen doesn’t move. It feels like a butterfly landed on his face. His skin is tingling.

“Why didn’t you say something to me?” Dorian says. There’s an unhappy edge to his voice.

“It’s only been these past several weeks, that I...”

Dorian sags against him in relief. “Oh.”

“What did you think?”

“I… oh, nothing.”

“I only feel this way for you because of how I know you now,” Cullen whispers. “Because of how thoroughly you’ve charmed me. Because of how much I’ve been near you.”

A few moments pass, and then Dorian tentatively lets himself fall into Cullen’s lap. He rests his elbow on Cullen's shoulder and presses a closed fist to his own mouth.

“This is a lot for me, you understand,” he says softly, after a long moment.

Cullen’s nerves are set aflame by Dorian’s sudden weight against him. He can barely form a sentence. “I… I do.”

“Of course I was attracted to you when we first met,” Dorian says. “But men like me learn to expect less than nothing. We learn to properly hide these sentimental parts of ourselves, to deny them.”

“I’ve learned that as well,” Cullen murmurs.

“I had no idea you had feelings for men.”

“I’ve hardly acted on it,” Cullen said. “Once, as a young templar. We were so terrified of being sent down for fraternization we hardly even spoke again afterward.”

Dorian reaches up and strokes Cullen's hair. He looks like he's carefully thinking. Cullen feels he could die a happy man in this chair, under Dorian.

“I was more ashamed that you’re a mage than a man,” Cullen says, his voice going quiet again.

Dorian’s hand stills. “Why, may I ask?”

“I’ve had certain…” Cullen swallows. “Certain affections toward mages. Inappropriate on my part. Always so silly and selfish. I’ve been drawn to their power -- your power… and was once disgusted by it and fearful of it all the same. Things have happened to me... I had, maybe have, a silly romantic fancy in my head. I have not been a good man. I was so full of dread when I met you, seeing how lovely you were, how charming, how powerful. I thought I could defend myself against you by becoming your friend and only your friend, and that idea has made a fool of me. I'm attracted to you immeasurably more now that I know you.”

“You don’t have a templar’s power over me, Commander,” Dorian says in a low voice. He resumes stroking his hair. “I’m not a mage in your Circle. Nothing about me is forbidden.”

“I know. I do. I can’t help being disgusted by myself. Please don’t think it reflects on my feelings toward you. My place in the Inquisition is one of the purest things about me. As is my affection for you.”

Dorian slides to the center of his lap, looks at him carefully for a second while cupping his jaw, and kisses him.

Cullen is overwhelmed by the sudden chaos of his senses. Their chemistry is palpable immediately. He feels the kiss all over his body, in the tug behind his cock and the sudden rise of gooseflesh under his armor.

Dorian moans against his mouth and they press their bodies together more intimately. Cullen desperately wishes he were naked, or at least in his smalls.

They kiss and kiss, knocking teeth several times before Dorian stretches up in Cullen’s lap and finds a better angle with which to meet his lips, cupping his face with both hands. Cullen’s remain on Dorian’s waist and it feels so good to hold him there that he doesn’t even consider moving them until Dorian takes him by the wrist and guides Cullen’s hand to his ass. He can’t get a very good grip with armor in the way but the feel of the curve is enough. He lets out a breathy noise and his legs spread further apart under Dorian, who responds by sucking on his lower lip until he gasps. He feels close to feverish. A desperate energy vibrates between them, a need to lie together, to be stretched out naked and pressed against each other. For Cullen to be inside of him, to take him.

Cullen pulls away slightly and looks at Dorian. His lips are dark red and his hair is askew. His gray eyes gleam in the dim light.

“What, Commander?”

“Just making sure everything is alright,” Cullen says, smoothing a hand through Dorian’s hair.

“More than alright, I think. Quite good, actually.”

“Would it be outrageous of me to ask you to come back to my quarters?”

Dorian gives him a wicked smile. “For a nightcap?”

“... Sure.”

“Is this particular nightcap hiding in your breeches?”

Cullen shifts awkwardly so his hard-on is no longer poking Dorian in the thigh. “A nightcap _could_ just honestly be a nightcap.

“So you’ll give me a drink, shake my hand and see me off?”

His voice is a soft throaty rumble deep in his chest. It is dissolving every ounce of willpower Cullen has.

“I’ll do whatever you’d like me to,” he says. He barely sounds like himself. All he wants is Dorian’s warm body in his bed, all he wants is this same electric feeling in of him for hours and hours until he can’t take anymore.

“Are you as bothered as I am?” Dorian asks, stroking his jaw with his thumb.

“I am,” Cullen admits. “I need you.”

“Say what you really mean, Commander.”

Cullen buries his mouth against Dorian’s throat. His cheeks and ears are burning. His body is positively humming.

“I want to fuck you. I... I _need_ to fuck you,” he says hoarsely.

Dorian moans, his hand going to the nape of Cullen’s neck. A small pulse of electricity shoots from his fingers down Cullen's spine. Cullen feels emboldened.

“Do you need me?” he asks.

“I do, as a matter of fact,” Dorian murmurs. “I need you inside me, Commander. Every inch of you.”

Cullen could come from the sound of his voice saying that alone. He sucks at Dorian’s neck and Dorian sighs happily.

“Should we, um -”

“Start untangling ourselves?” Dorian asks. “If only this chair weren’t so comfortable.”

Cullen’s hand slides from Dorian’s ribs to his waist. He looks at him in a very serious way. “Am I moving on you too suddenly?”

Dorian snorts and rubs Cullen’s jaw with his thumb. “Don’t know if you were there for this, but I was the one who fell on top of you and kissed you. And you’re the one who’s been drinking.”

“Well,” Cullen laughs, “I feel rather sober now, actually.”

Dorian gets up and helps Cullen to his feet. The blood rushes to his head and he stumbles forward, falling against Dorian, whose strong grip surprises him. They both laugh and when Cullen’s vision clears he kisses Dorian, sucking on his lower lip and pressing his hands to the small of his back. Dorian makes a helpless noise and clenches his fist in Cullen’s hair, sliding a thigh between both of his to rub against his cock.

A moan comes out of Cullen that seems to surprise both of them. They stagger together toward the stairs as one unit, and then Cullen throws his arm over Dorian’s shoulder and they walk down side by side, with Dorian using magic to blow out the lamps as they go.

They stumble, laughing and nuzzling, through the round room that Solas frequents and Dorian’s lower back bumps up against the desk in the middle. He sits on the edge and the two of them kiss again, deeply, just enjoying the sensation of their mouths together. Dorian is a talented kisser and has very quickly figured out how Cullen likes to be kissed, how he likes to be touched. Cullen feels lighter of spirit than he has for a long time.

Dorian’s legs are spread and the insides of his thighs are pressed to the outsides of Cullen’s. Cullen wants desperately to get the both of them out of their clothes, he wants so badly to touch Dorian’s bare skin, to feel those bare thighs on the sides of his waist as Dorian bounces on his cock. He can see it so clearly in his imagination that he shivers. Dorian bites his lip and Cullen gasps and puts his hands flat on the desk behind him.

There’s an extremely unexpected creak of hinges and Dorian and Cullen’s heads both jerk up toward the door, which Varric is walking through.

For a few seconds he's fully absorbed in an envelope he’s looking at, then he looks up and shouts in surprise.

“Out!” Dorian yells.

Varric doesn’t move. A grin spreads across his face.

“Cuuuuur- _ly!_ ” he says. He sounds genuinely gleeful. “Praise be to the Maker! I really had no idea.”

“Enough! Some privacy, please?” Cullen demands.

“I’m sorry, I clearly interrupted a pretty important discussion. I guess Sparkler has some information for the Inquisition forces stashed away in his tonsils,” Varric says, laughing and backing up very quickly as Dorian picks up a paperweight from the desk and makes as if to throw it. “Okay, I’ll leave you be, I get it, we’re all celebrating tonight. Have fun, kids.”

The door shuts quietly behind him.

Cullen is very flushed. “That dwarf is no end of trouble.”

“Oh, screw him,” Dorian says. “Let’s just get to your quarters.”

“Yes, yes,” Cullen says, tugging him up by one of the latches on his rather complex outfit. “Absolutely.”

They make their way over the battlements, bumping into each other and chuckling, stopping every few feet to gently touch and then continue to drag each other along. The battlements give them an expansive view of the courtyard below, where lights still gleam and a few voices still echo in the breezy mountain air.

They stop at the door to Cullen’s office and Dorian releases Cullen’s waist so he can paw through his pockets in search of his key.

They stagger haphazardly through the doorway and stop in the darkness to kiss against the wall. Cullen’s hands cup Dorian’s face and Dorian grabs one of them and strokes the back of Cullen’s palm with his thumb.

He feels Dorian smile against his mouth, and then he sucks on Cullen’s lip in a filthy way that sends a hot pang to the pit of his stomach. He presses Dorian harder up against the wall and Dorian lets out a pleased noise, tipping his head back so Cullen can suck his neck.

Cullen feels almost unbearably heady and electrified. Every inch of his skin is buzzing and he feels like he can’t possibly let go of Dorian, like he’ll fall apart with the pain of it if they stop touching. As far as his cock concerned, they could make love right here on the floor.

He knows, though, that the soft comfort of a bed is mere feet away, so he murmurs  “let me take you upstairs” against Dorian’s throat.

“Yes, yes,” Dorian murmurs softly, kissing him on the cheek and forehead and caressing his hair.

Cullen does the gentlemanly thing and lets him go first, then suddenly remembers there’s a phial of oil in his desk and races to get it before he climbs up.

“For a moment there I thought you left me,” Dorian says, giving him an amused look. He’s standing off to the side, slowly undoing his clothing.

Cullen holds up the phial, smiling sheepishly.

“Ohhh,” Dorian says, his voice reverberating in his throat in a soft, sweet way that makes Cullen want to put his hands on him. “I suppose this resourcefulness is why you’re in charge of an entire army.”

Cullen moves closer to him and begins to remove his own armor. “Well, I like to believe I have some other sterling qualities as well...”

“How cocky he becomes, with the promise of sex!”

With this, Dorian drops his armor to the floor and takes a step toward the bed. He’s beautiful naked, muscular and taut, his dusky skin glowing golden in the soft spill of lamplight. His ass is perfectly round, and there’s a small crescent-shaped scar above his left nipple.

Cullen feels prickly heat all over, looking at him like this. Dorian’s pale eyes are glowing intensely in the dim light, rimmed by dark eyelashes. He’s down to his smalls and he feels strangely self-conscious as he unbuttons his shirt and lets it fall aside, then pulls the string on his pants and lets them fall as well.

The feeling immediately dissipates when he sees the openly hungry look Dorian gives his cock.

Cullen feels like he floated across the room, with how quickly he reaches Dorian. He grabs his dark hair in possessive fistfuls and Dorian shoves his tongue into his mouth. They stand there kissing for a few moments and then Dorian moves briefly away from his mouth to whisper _“fuck me, fuck me”_ and Cullen drags them both onto the bed, the phial of oil swinging from his wrist.

Cullen stretches back against the bed and Dorian lies over top of him, kissing his chest, and puts his hand to Cullen’s cock for the first time, stroking him gently. Dorian is hard as well, and his erection presses against Cullen’s stomach, leaking slightly.

“How do you want to do this?” Cullen murmurs.

“I want to look at you,” Dorian says.

Cullen opens the phial and spills some oil onto his hand, then begins to rub his fingers against Dorian, who lets out a slow, shuddering sigh and slides his palm against the side of Cullen’s face, stroking his jaw. Cullen’s heart is in his throat with the thrill of finally being so close to him.

He pushes his index finger very shallowly inside of him and Dorian gives a moan, rolling his body against Cullen’s.

Cullen feels a familiar pang of muscle pain in his shoulder and rolls out from under Dorian. He moves so he can sit on the bed with his back supported against the wall, gesturing for Dorian to come sit in his lap.

“You’re so lovely,” Cullen says, as Dorian arranges himself with his thighs pressed to Cullen’s waist and his arms stretched over his shoulders.

“Oh, I know,” Dorian says. His smile is so brilliant it overwhelms Cullen. He runs his thumb gently across the scar over Cullen’s lip.

Cullen slides his finger back into Dorian. Dorian closes his eyes, tips his head back. The warm weight of him on Cullen’s lap feels wonderful. He begins to stroke Dorian's cock while fingering him, and Dorian wraps his arm around Cullen's broad shoulders, holding him tight as he gives a long sigh.

Dorian is the one who moves to maneuver Cullen’s cock inside of him, and the moment of him doing so feels triumphantly effortless, like the Maker peeked in on them earlier and set them on a perfect gliding course to Cullen’s bed. Dorian moans and clings to him with one hand and with the sheets to the other. His nails rake up Cullen’s back.

Dorian is covered in a light sheen of sweat, despite how frigid the room is, and he smiles again. Cullen’s hands settle on his waist and he kisses him. At the same time Dorian begins to move on his cock, which feels indescribably good. Cullen finds himself short of breath and leans his head back against the cool stone. Dorian’s nails dig into him. He tries to lift his hips and move _with_ Dorian and it’s much better that way. Soon their bodies work together silently and discover a rhythm that feels fantastic. He feels he’s falling to pieces under Dorian and being held together only by shameless need.

Between the two of them there’s a constant duet of soft groans and gasps and _“ohh”s._ Cullen’s usual self-consciousness feels like an absurd hat that he’s finally getting to take off. Who cares if Dorian sees and hears and feels his arousal? He _wants_ him to, he wants nothing better than to express to Dorian how incredible this is, how much he has wanted this and how long he has wanted it for. He wants him to know that the splendid clench of his body around Cullen’s cock is better than he could ever have imagined and that he feels desperately, wildly at peace, like he could do this forever if he wouldn’t tire.

Dorian is sucking at his neck and in the passionate, obstinate way of someone in the throes of sex, Cullen doesn’t mind. Cullen wants Dorian to leave big ugly marks on him, he wants to carry Dorian with him for the next few days. He wants to feel that all-too-familiar heat in his cheeks every time he takes his armor off and looks in a mirror.

He feels the tugging sensation of passing the point after which he can no longer choose not to have an orgasm, and murmurs to Dorian that he’s going to come. Dorian responds by slinging his arm over Cullen’s shoulder and pressing their bodies together more intently. His nails rake down Cullen’s back with a deeply satisfying sting. Cullen grabs onto Dorian’s hair as he’s rocked by spasms of pleasure, and then sags against him with a deep sigh.

Dorian kisses his cheeks and forehead. “You’re so pink,” he says softly, smiling again. Being on the receiving end of his smile makes Cullen shudder with pleasure.

Cullen gently strokes Dorian’s cock, which he’s been neglecting. “What can I do for you?”

“Whatever you like, Commander.”

They disentangle and laugh good-naturedly at the awkwardness of two bodies after sex and Cullen’s semen spilling from Dorian onto his bedsheets - his unfortunately just recently _washed_ bedsheets.

Dorian lies back against the bed. He’s gazing upward. Cullen follows his look, and realizes he’s looking at the stars in the night sky through the gaping hole in the ceiling.

“I can’t imagine this is a comfortable place to sleep,” Dorian says.

“I like the cold,” Cullen says simply, then leans down and brushes his lips over Dorian’s cock.

His hand slides up Dorian’s inner thigh and Dorian laughs spasmodically, sliding his hand over Cullen’s.

Cullen looks up at him, grinning. “Are you ticklish?”

“Sometimes,” Dorian admits.

Cullen leaves his thighs alone and crooks a finger inside of him instead, stroking where he knows it feels good while he works Dorian’s cock over with his mouth.

Dorian moans and presses his hand to his mouth, his other hand grabbing for the sheets again. The deeper Cullen takes him, the more he writhes against the sheets, and it stirs some wonderful sensation in him to think he could make someone like Dorian feel this good. His soft gasps roll and echo through Cullen’s spent, satisfied body like fork taps to a wine glass.

He continues to suck, tilting his head, rubbing shallowly inside of Dorian with greater insistence. He enjoys the feel of Dorian’s cock at the back of his throat. Cullen sucks and licks at him eagerly, splaying a hand across his stomach, feeling Dorian’s breath catch in his lower ribs underneath his palm.

When Dorian comes, the sensation surprises him, but he gathers himself and swallows, then wipes at his mouth.

Dorian is grinning at him, and he pulls him close.

“You’re a sight right now,” he murmurs, running the tips of his fingers over Cullen’s lips. “You’re always a sight, actually…”

Cullen kisses him. He worries Dorian might push him away, with his mouth tasting of his own come, but Dorian embraces him eagerly, cradling Cullen’s face in his hands and pressing their bodies together as firmly as he can. Cullen’s thigh is slid between both of Dorian’s and his knee is resting in the wet spot on the bed. He’s giddy with the filthy obscenity of it all, with the hot press of their bodies and the animal beat of his heart in his chest, with the sharp odors of the room, with the cold air on his back and the precious warm body underneath him.

“It never feels like that,” Cullen says softly, his lips pressed to Dorian’s throat. His hand is resting on Dorian’s chest. He wishes he could disappear inside of him.

“Well, you've never had the distinct pleasure of being with _me_ before...”

“But I’m serious,” Cullen says, lifting his head a little so he can look Dorian in the eyes. “Do you… Does it feel like that, usually, for you?”

Dorian budges up and pushes Cullen gently so they’re flush with each other, chest to chest, face to face, and runs his hand down over Cullen’s shoulder to his forearm to his hand, which he holds onto. Their fingers intertwine lazily and they rest their clasped hands on Dorian’s thigh.

“No,” Dorian says simply. “No, it usually doesn’t.”

Cullen sits up and pulls a few blankets over them. Dorian curls up and presses himself tight against him, so his thick head of soft hair is against Cullen’s chest. Cullen falls asleep stroking his shoulder.

 

 


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Dorian deal awkwardly with the morning after, Varric gives Dorian a hard time, as does the Inquisitor. Dorian sets off again for the Hinterlands with Iron Bull, Varric, and the Inquisitor.

The following morning dawns for Skyhold with a thick fog that rolled in overnight from the west.

For Dorian, morning dawns with the familiar sound of someone trying to get ready without waking him.

He sits up. “Hello, Commander.”

Cullen looks at him and his face colors slightly.

“Morning,” he says. “Did I wake you?”

“You did, but I sleep lightly.” Dorian watches him continue to get ready. He seems flustered, either from the events of last night, or Dorian’s steady gaze, or both.

Dorian bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.

“So,” he says, moving to the edge of the bed and starting to pull on his own armor. “I’ll be on my way…”

He glances up at Cullen quickly enough to catch the tail end of an expression flit off of his face. Disappointment, maybe, or consternation.

Dorian knows he’s playing his cards too close to his chest here, but realizing this has never been enough to stop him from doing so. Let Cullen make the move, if he is so bold.

Apparently he isn’t. “All right,” Cullen says. “I have, um... Cassandra and I are doing sword and shield training with a new group of recruits. Remind me, why is the Inquisitor rushing off to the Hinterlands again so soon?”

“There was a rift reported south of where we were, but the dragon was an unexpected interruption. And immediately after, we had to address the… oh… give or take, two hundred pounds of valuable dragon bone.”

Cullen laughs. “Lucky you had the Bull with you. Are you off with her again today?”

“Yes, she asked to have me along.”

The Inquisitor has made no secret of favoring the way Dorian’s more subtle work with necromancy complements her own new skills as a knight enchanter, which has had the effect of making Solas quietly despise him, which he finds absolutely hilarious. Because he respects Vivienne, however, he once went out of his way to apologize to her about the matter.

“Dear, you have nothing to be apologetic about!” she said. “I’m sure the Inquisitor merely recognizes you are better suited to rolling around in the mud of Ferelden with a bunch of vagrants and outlaws than I am.”

She had turned and sauntered away from him before it even occurred to him to respond.

“Well,” Cullen says. He self-consciously folds his arms over his chest, then puts them on his hips, then lets them dangle by his sides, all in one fluid gesture. Dorian can hardly believe what he’s seeing.

He does, at least, look absolutely dashing in the bright light coming from the hole in his ceiling. It paints a glowing halo over him and emphasizes his leonine qualities.

“I’ll see you when I’m back,” Dorian says, finishing up the clasps on his armor. “Perhaps we can get a drink?”

“I’d like that,” Cullen says simply, and steps aside so he can climb down the ladder.

Dorian shakes his head to himself for most of his walk across the battlements.

 

/

 

“Oh, here he is,” Varric calls. “The man of the hour.”

Dorian adopts a scowl. He’s already annoyed about having to slog through the boggy grass and mist to congregate with Varric, Bull and Evelyn at the front gate to Skyhold. Now he can see neither of the latter have arrived yet, and Cullen is leading his training in the expanse of grass in front of same gate, which means Varric has an as yet undetermined amount of time to goad him and there’s nothing he can do about it. Short of throwing the dwarf off the drawbridge, that is.

“Yes, here I am, and shut your mouth, right now,” Dorian says, strolling quickly over to him before anyone hears his babbling.

“Relax, Sparkler, I’m not trying to blow your spot. I’m just inviting you to come enjoy the view.”

Dorian takes another look at Cullen and sees that despite the chilly, damp air, he’s topless and sweating vigorously. He’s flushed from face to chest, in a way very reminiscent of last night.

Dorian shifts his weight around and snaps his attention back to Varric. “The view, hmm? You know, people are going to start to talk about you, with the things you say.”

Varric shrugs. “I’m a writer. It happens.”

“You’re a little terror, is what you are. Anyway, I’m surprised _you’re_ not distracted by Cassandra...”

This actually seems to throw Varric for a loop for all of half a second. Dorian’s lips curl in satisfaction.

“Not hardly,” Varric says, smooth as ever.

“Really? Because I think she looks rather good with a sword in her hand.”

“You’re welcome to her, Sparkler. Then see if you can find your way into Leliana’s robes, and somehow talk Ruffles and the Inquisitor into a threesome, and you’ll have had the set.”

“Don’t be disgusting.”

“You brought it up. Who’s being a little terror now? You know damn well my heart belongs to one woman and one woman only, and she’s sitting on my back as we speak." Varric pauses and then grins. "Don’t look now, but I think Knight-Captain Curly noticed us.”

Cullen is, in fact, looking in Dorian's direction. When their eyes meet Cullen’s lips quirk up in a nervous smile and he blushes under his flush, becoming downright ruddy. Dorian can’t help but be utterly endeared by that, and smiles back.

Cullen immediately takes the wide side of a recruit's blunted sword to the head with an echoing _whap!_ sound. Varric sucks in air through his teeth and Dorian winces.

“Maker,” Cullen hisses, bending over with one hand on his thighs and the other clasped to his ear. “Yes, good work, Oslin,” he calls. “Take advantage of your opponent's distractions.”

He makes a gesture at Cassandra, who nods and shouts for the recruits to gather around her.

Cullen turns in Dorian’s direction and quirks his finger, then jerks his head at the far wall, behind the gaggle of tents that makes up the infirmary.

Pointedly ignoring Varric and any noises or expressions he might be making, Dorian tries to follow Cullen as casually as possible. He certainly feels Cassandra’s flinty gaze on his back, but he does his best to ignore it.

They settle against the wall, slightly hidden from prying eyes by foliage. As they face each other, Dorian feels his heart speed up. He tries to slow his breathing, to hide his sudden nerves.

“So, I just, ah,” Cullen says. “Well, first off, I’m rather terrible at this, even more so when I’m not full of alcohol.”

“I agree that we should talk,” Dorian says. “And to be frank, I’m quite shit at this myself.”

“Well, you likely have more experience than I do, at least.”

Dorian smiles wryly. “With talking about my feelings? Hardly, unless you’re really a golem. In which case… marvelous disguise.”

Cullen laughs heartily, looking up into the overcast sky. When he meets Dorian’s eyes again, his face is serious. “You’re deflecting.”

“Well spotted, Commander.”

“I very much enjoyed last night. Possibly more than you did, and if that’s the case, it is what it is. But…”

Dorian leans into him. Their eyes lock, and Dorian closes his. They close the remaining distance and their lips meet. At first awkwardly, because they’re standing at a bit of a grade, but Cullen pulls Dorian with him under the archway and presses his back to the castle wall, and then the kiss becomes truly good.

He sucks on Cullen’s lower lip and pushes his tongue slightly into Cullen’s mouth and revels in the way his body responds to that, how he presses against Dorian more insistently and grabs onto his hair, stroking his face.

Cullen is so much simpler, on a fundamental level, than the men Dorian is used to sleeping with. Dorian isn’t used to these open displays of attraction, to the guilelessness of his touches and his fond looks, to the genuine, nervous way Cullen confessed his feelings in the library. He’s at once endeared and spooked. He’s used to playing a cat and mouse game, to finding a hand on his thigh unexpectedly at a dinner, with no words exchanged, to muffled sex with his own knuckle in his mouth so the elves won’t hear and report back to the magister at the head of the household. To, essentially, silence.

But Cullen is anything but silent. He’s this large, handsome farmboy templar, full of regrets and anger and new feelings, with an ache deep in his bones -

(Dorian has an idea, after briefly treating him last night, just how much pain Cullen endures in his withdrawals. His spirit magic, powerful as it is, could hardly contain it.)

He responds enthusiastically to Dorian’s touches, he looks at him openly. This is all new to him, and he’s… _excited_.

His one hand is on Dorian’s hip now, and he laughs. Dorian’s not sure what at, but he laughs too and moves away from his lips so he can kiss Cullen’s jaw, and then the scar above his lip. Cullen brings Dorian’s hand to his own face and laces their fingers together. He’s smiling at him.

“I don’t know if you can quantify such a thing,” Dorian murmurs. “But I think we enjoyed ourselves equally as much.”

“Well, that’s certainly good to hear.”

“Now that we’ve got that settled, maybe we should get back to our respective duties for the Inquisition?”

“Fuck the Inquisition,” Cullen says, his voice suddenly an attractively intimidating rumble in his throat. Dorian goes a little boneless against him. “Ah, but, not really, of course.” _Damn._ “Yes, I’ll let you get back to it. And when you return, I’m holding you to that promise of a drink.”

“As if I would go back on a promise of drinking!”

They haven’t quite separated yet when the Inquisitor walks underneath the archway and bumps right into them.

“Oh!” she says, stepping backward in confusion, and then - “... _oh!”_

“Afternoon,” Dorian says, stepping back a little from Cullen and flattening himself against the wall behind them. Cullen’s hands go limply to his sides and he looks for all he’s worth like a little boy caught stealing cookies right out of the oven.

“I was just coming to meet you,” she says, leaning on her staff and giving Dorian a sharp look.

“Inquisitor, I’m so sorry for the…” Cullen trails off and shakes his head with his mouth hanging open, then looks helplessly at Dorian.

Dorian pats Cullen on his bare bicep and inclines his head in the direction of the group of recruits, which seems to be experiencing some level of internal chaos without both templars to holler at them. “I’ve got it.”

Cullen is off without another word, just a guilty, apologetic glance at the Inquisitor, who folds her arms and directs her attention at Dorian.

“I can’t believe this,” she exclaims. “You were the first person I came to about Josephine, long before we were actually, you know…”

“Exchanging bodily fluids? And no, I was not! Leliana came to _you_ -”

“Well, I did say who _I_ came to, didn’t I?”

She gives him a cocky look, which in Dorian’s opinion is entirely undeserved.

“All right,” Dorian says, and puts up his hands in surrender. “This all happened last night.”

“What’s ‘this’?”

“We had… an encounter. For the first time. Completely to my surprise, as well.”

“Ohh,” she says. “Does anyone…”

“No one but Varric, who walked in on us.”

She winces sympathetically. “How?”

“We were being a bit… public… Well, it was late.”

“Was this after the commander left us at the tavern? He said he was going to bed!”

“Well… he _did_ go to bed, eventually.”

She lets out a choked laugh. “All right - for now, why don’t we join the others, and we can discuss this on the way? Because I have many, many questions.”

“I’ll answer exactly ten.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Possibly fifteen.”

“I answer every question of _yours._ ”

“Sixteen.”

 


	3. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lots of ellipses, learning to write broadcast scripts has taken a toll in me
> 
> theres sex in this one yay

Dorian finishes laying out the story for the Inquisitor and and they sit in silence as the carriage bounces them along. She folds her hands in her lap and sighs.

“So - what is it like, in Tevinter?”

“We’ve discussed this, I thought?”

“I mean, what are real, romantic relationships like? Between men, between women?”

“Women are given a bit more free reign… a bit. Because they control the means of reproduction, you see. But in general, you don’t get away with a long-term relationship unless you’re very sneaky, or _very_ wealthy and also lacking in magical talent. As a magister, anything that brings your marriageability down is a no-no. Anything that brings your likelihood of producing heirs down… Even after you’ve married, being left is always a concern, if you’re caught out. The idea is to produce as many magisters as possible, obviously. So, you bounce around from paramour to paramour. Before marriage and after it. When I thought I was going to stay, I didn’t see any kind of future for myself romantically. Not as someone’s permanent and public object of affection… or vice versa. Even now, it’s hard to imagine. It was never modelled for me by anyone, and even the sexual aspect was treated as a sort of unfortunate embarrassment.” He laughs ruefully.

“Oh, not quite as bad as all that. I've had to be subtle, but being a mage in Ostwick is what I expect not having magic in Tevinter is like. You’re not exactly first in line as heir. And I have siblings, as well.”

“Yes, that does help. I have always wished I had some strapping older brother who could carry on the Pavus name for my father. It would have freed _me_ up considerably. Magically, I’ve always been a delight to my parents. Personally, rather a disappointment...”

They fall into silence for some moments.

“I’d just like to say this,” the Inquisitor says, finally. “I do care for Cullen, as the commander of my troops and as a friend. He’s told you about his weaning himself off of lyrium.”

“We've spoken of it very briefly.”

She nods. “I see him become confused from the effects, sometimes. I see his anger and frustration over the level of pain he must manage. It was I that gave him the ultimate order to quit lyrium. I take responsibility for his well-being. Not only for him as a person, but the impact he has as the leader of our forces and the good face he puts on the Inquisition for the people of Ferelden... who are suspicious of a Free Marches mage having men always trampling through their turnip gardens.”

“Where are you heading with this?”

“I can’t have him distracted, or hurt.”

“And you think I’d do either?”

“Not intentionally! Dorian, I know how good a man you are. But from what I know of Cullen, in this context, he’s a romantic. He’s like Cassandra. They’ve seen and done horrible things, but still have these ideas in their heads of the stories they were told as children. You and I are pragmatists…”

“Josephine is a romantic as well, and you two have negotiated your terms just fine.”

“Josephine is far more pragmatic than she appears. And I’m _dating_ her.”

“Oh, so this is the problem at hand. I might remind you we were intimate for the first time only less than a day ago.”

The carriage hits a hard bump and Dorian, already tense and still sore, accidentally shoots electricity into the wood of his seat. It leaves scorch marks.

“I understand. But what I’m saying is that while for people like you and I, who are used to sneaking trysts, going to bed that quickly isn’t out of the ordinary at all. But for someone like Cullen… he must be very fond of you, to have been so eager.”

“You have to recall, Inquisitor, the Commander and I have been friends for months now.”

“I do recall, of course.”

“So what are you asking?”

“I suppose I’m asking how much you enjoy his company?”

“I like him very much as a friend, I enjoy his company. Obviously I find him attractive.”

“And?”

“And? I don’t know. What do I need to say here? After one night, I’m madly in love, I'm going to marry him and have his handsome, distressingly pale children?”

“Are you being defensive?”

“Possibly! I’ll say this. When we were together, I felt very cared for and… I don’t know. Present, in the moment. Very safe. I don’t usually feel that way. However, I never sleep with men I’ve been friends with, who I’ve been in combat with.”

“That I can understand.”

“I don’t know where my lack of experience in relationships ends and my feelings for him begin. That’s the crux of what I’m saying to you.”

She shakes her head. “I wish you’d said that earlier... I can relate to it quite a bit.”

“You know by now you must poke at me rather hard to get down to any bedrock of actual truth.”

“Well, I’m glad I poked.”

The carriage stops. Dorian can see out the window that it's foggy here, as well. Delightful.

“I’ll leave this conversation open for another day,” the Inquisitor says, standing. “If you'd like, that is.”

“Fine by me. Now let’s dispatch with these demons so we can leave this horrid countryside.”

They reunite with Iron Bull and Varric as they get out of the other carriage. Varric looks about as happy as feels Dorian to be out in the fresh, damp air of Ferelden.

“Shall we?” the Inquisitor says, hiking her robes up a little as she slogs through the grass, leading them on toward the camp about a mile north from where the Imperial Highway into the Hinterlands ends.

“After you, Boss,” Iron Bull grunts.

 

/

 

After they’ve stopped in at the camp to slide as many healing potions as they can into their pockets and ask if scouts have been sent to scrape up any remaining useful bits of dragon viscera from the countryside for Dagna, they’re off to the rift.

The farmer who marked the rift on the map for them overshot it some, however, because they’re still what must be half a mile from the rocky outcropping depicted underneath the X he made when the ground starts to smoke and crackle under their feet.

Dorian and Varric exchange a look and immediately start backing up. Evelyn’s palm begins to glow, and she looks up grimly as the massive pale spirit blade forms in her hands.

When they’re finally done hacking away at demons, Dorian has been backed up so far against the mountain he’s standing with his legs absurdly splayed as he wields his staff, shooting out one last blast of ice before the Inquisitor is able to step forward and stretch her hand out to close the rift. Varric’s chest is pink with exertion, and the Bull is almost unrecognizable under a spray of gore. He sets his waraxe down heavily, one point sinking into the damp earth, and sighs.

“Good fight, but nothing like that dragon.”

“I will die a happy man if I never see a fight as good as that dragon again,” Dorian snaps, slipping slightly as he tries to slowly and gracefully come down from the slight downhill advantage he’s made for himself.

“We’ll bring Cassandra next time.”

“Please _do_ bring her next time you’re fighting a dragon, yes! She’s a Pentaghast, isn’t she? And we don’t need three ranged fighters,” Dorian says, strolling up to them.

At this, Evelyn looks shifty.

Varric folds his arms. “Yeah, about that, Inquisitor. You worry me, getting up close with that magic sword.”

“We should start toward camp, if we want to make it before sundown,” Dorian interrupts. They begin to head that way.

“How is it any different than a normal sword?” she says conversationally.

“Well, for starters, warriors with _armor_ on carry normal swords. Not mages in thin little coats.”

“I beg your pardon, we wear rather thick coats,” Dorian says.

“Okay, you’re not helping her out with that, Sparkler.”

“Hey, Varric, I don’t wear armor,” Iron Bull says.

“Oh, please. You’re Qunari, you _are_ armor.”

“I suppose I can stay back more,” Evelyn says wistfully.

“Listen, I have complete faith in you,” Varric says. “But we do need that hand of yours pretty damn badly.”

“Oh, just my hand?” She laughs.

“And your wise and unwavering leadership, of course -”

“Is that a hickey?” Iron Bull loudly interrupts.

They all turn and look at him, and Dorian nearly loses his footing, because he knows Bull is talking to him.

“It’s a bruise,” Dorian mutters, fixing his robes so his neck is again properly covered.

“That’s not a bruise, don’t shit me.”

“I’m doing no such thing! I don’t know how you even saw it from up there, but it’s a bruise.”

“Who gave Dorian a hickey?” Iron Bull wonders to no one in particular. Dorian can feel that sharp gaze traveling up and down his body, as he’s felt several times before. The back of his neck prickles.

There’s a loud silence.

“Well, don’t look at me,” Varric says.

“Nor me,” the Inquisitor adds.

“This is a great mystery,” Iron Bull says. “I’m going to put up a sign in the tavern. Who fucked Dorian? We’ll have a guessing contest. Winner gets ten sovereigns.”

“I’ll flay you the way you flayed the dragon,” Dorian snarls. “Only you’ll be alive for it.”

“Ooh, talk dirty to me. I can’t believe you’re being so evasive with a Ben-Hassrath. Don’t they teach you Vints anything? If you give me something, I’ll leave you alone.”

“Alright, then. It was Blackwall,” Dorian says, “when he made love to me in the stables.” He can’t help but make a disgusted face even as he says it. Iron Bull lets out a booming laugh.

“Okay, you guys need to cut it out,” Varric says. “Because I just pictured that, and I’m not feeling too great now.”

“All of you, hush,” the Inquisitor says. “I don’t know why I ever think traveling with you three is going to be a good idea.”

“Excuse me,” Dorian says. “I am exceedingly well-behaved.”

“Apparently not,” Iron Bull says, from right behind him.

He jumps and wheels around, and Iron Bull stops dead right before careening into him. He smiles wryly down at Dorian.

“Listen,” Dorian says, jabbing a finger into his chest. “This is no business of yours.”

“Friendly curiosity.”

“Leave him alone, Bull,” Varric calls. Apparently he and the Inquisitor got a good distance away before realizing they’d lost half their party.

“Do you really want me to leave you alone?” Bull says, quietly enough so only they can hear.

A few days ago, Dorian wouldn’t have known the answer. Probably _no_ would have been the answer. He was lonelier then, and the idea of someone who wanted to take complete charge of him and his body was starting to sound like a blessing. But now as he stands ankle-deep in mud, aroused from this arguing and being so close to Bull, all he’s thinking about is how he wants to get back to Skyhold and have Cullen fuck him apart on that great big desk of his.

“For now,” Dorian says, “yes.”

Bull nods. “Received,” he says, and steps aside to continue on. Dorian sighs through his nose.

 

/

 

When they’ve made the long trip back to Skyhold and Dorian’s settling back into his room, putting robes away, there’s a knock at his door.

“Yes?” he calls, and turns around. Varric steps into the room.

“Wicked Grace tonight,” he says. “I’ve rounded up pretty much everybody. You in?”

“As if I ever pass up an opportunity to lose money to you?”

Varric grins. “And my pockets are _so_ glad that you don’t, Sparkler.”

“Yes, just give me a few more moments here and I’ll be down.”

When Varric leaves, Dorian finds himself fussing with his hair for far too long in the mirror, then his face and mustache. Finally he puts his hands down and sighs. He always forgets that he gets even more color on overcast days, and his skin is has a golden pink tint that would make his mother cluck her tongue at him. Too workmanlike.

He thinks it looks sexy on him, personally.

He makes the long trek to the lower floors of Skyhold, ignoring the usual searching looks from some of the Orlesian nobles gathered in the main hall. They used to speculate openly about his intentions every time he walked by, until about a week ago when they suddenly started becoming conspicuously silent whenever they saw him. Dorian can’t be entirely sure, but he thinks he has Josephine to thank for that.

When he walks in there’s a general welcoming hubbub, but what he instantly notices is the only open chair is between Cullen and Varric. Cullen gives him what he thinks is an apologetic look.

He walks over with his back impeccably straight and sits down. Varric quickly starts dealing him in.

To his great surprise, Cullen stretches his arm out and rests his hand on the edge of the back of Dorian’s chair. One of his fingers briefly brushes Dorian’s shoulder.

Dorian feels heat rising swiftly in his chest. Cassandra is giving him a falcon-like stare, and Bull is looking at him with sudden interest. He looks very determinedly down at his cards.

“Trying to cheat, Curly?” Varric says.

“Hmm?” Cullen sounds like someone being roused from a nap they didn’t know they were taking.

Cole opens his mouth and Dorian gives him a stricken look and shakes his head ever so slightly. He falters and looks at Dorian a little more closely, like he's concentrating, then closes his mouth.

Dorian does not have a very good hand. He sighs. He wishes he could knock Cullen’s arm away without looking like he’s gone insane. At the same time, he wishes the same hand would travel over his shoulder, up the back of his neck, and play with his hair. Pull on it a little.

“Commander,” Bull suddenly says, in a gruff voice.

Sera wakes up from a nap with a snort. “Whazzat?”

Varric leans over and pushes a few cards into her hand. “You slept through a couple rounds, there, Buttercup.”

“Well, it’s not my fault the wine they’ve got at this place is stronger than anything, is it? Ha, I’ve got a great hand, actually!”

Cassandra makes a noise that comes across as a verbal scowl. Sera grins at her.

“Commander,” Bull repeats.

“Oh, sorry, yes,” Cullen says. “What was it?”

“I heard from Krem you didn’t have much luck at Therinfal Redoubt.”

Cullen’s hand slips off the back of Dorian’s chair and he reaches for his wine. Taking a cue from this, Dorian pours himself an obscenely full glass.

“No, neither my troops nor the Chargers found much of use.”

Blackwall draws a card and mutters _“shit.”_

“That’s too bad,” Bull says. “Maybe we should have gone with Leliana’s plan. Sent some forward scouts. Could've gotten a lot more done.”

Cullen’s eyes narrow ever so slightly, like he’s understanding something.

“Maybe,” he says. “Who is _we?_ ”

“Okay,” Evelyn interjects. “It was my decision, and I didn’t want to leave the Chargers uncovered.”

 “Well, there you are then. Shall we get back to the game?” Josephine says smoothly.

 Dorian’s almost finished the glass of wine already.

 “Yeah, please, guys,” Varric says. “No more shop talk.”

 “Agreed,” Cullen mumbles sourly.

 

/

 

When the game ends and they begin to clean up and disperse, Cassandra and Cullen retire to the corner near the fireplace. From what he can see, Cullen is giving her an inventory of himself; he gestures at his temples several times.

 He clearly registers Dorian’s gaze. His eyes keep seeming to want to leave Cassandra’s face and travel to the right, and he bites his lip, but he doesn’t look over. Maybe it’s for their own good.

 Unable to justify lingering any longer, Dorian turns his attention to Varric, who’s gathering cards and shuffling them back into his deck.

 “Where did Bull go?” he says, too quiet for Cullen to hear.

 “I’m pretty sure he was headed back to the tavern,” Varric says.

 “Good.” 

“Gonna go call him out on the carpet?”

 “I don’t care for his clumsy poking into my personal affairs.” Dorian can feel the weight of alcohol sitting high in his chest, pushing his words out sooner than he intends.

  _“That_ was clumsy? Looked pretty subtle from where I was sitting.”

 “Perhaps our standards for subtlety are different.”

 “During a card game where everyone involved is drinking?” Varric lets out a bark of a laugh, loudly enough that Cassandra looks over at them. The laughter trails off into a wistful sigh. “Yeah. I’ll bet they are.”

 Dorian finishes pouring out the dregs of discarded wine glasses into the bucket next to the table. He notices a foot sticking out and nudges it. “Sera, wake up.”

 “‘M not asleep! I’m whittling.”

 She pokes her head out from the table and shows him the small, mostly shapeless wooden figure and gleaming dagger in her hands.

 “Well, either way, get out from under there. I’m headed your same way, walk with me.”

 She hops to her feet with surprising grace for a drunk person and leans on him. “Lead the way, spiffy.”

 They head up the stairs together and out into the night air of Skyhold. The fog has mostly passed and the air is crisp and clear. Fireflies twinkle dimly in the bushes, the light of them smeared by his state of drunkenness.

 “Good game, that was,” Sera says.

 Dorian, preoccupied, makes a noise in response.

 “What’s with you? What’s got you so grumpy? Did I miss something tonight?”

 “I think most everyone did.” 

“Well, _that_ tells me a whole lot.”

 Dorian shakes his head. “You don’t even want to know, quite honestly. Even if I thought you would keep quiet about it, you’d just be annoyed at everyone involved.”

 “Well spotted! But that’s usually the case, innit?”

 They walk into the tavern. Dorian immediately zeroes in on Bull at the bar.

 “Goodnight,” he tells Sera, who mumbles in reply and rushes upstairs, giving the tavern bard a wide berth.

 Dorian walks up behind Bull and gives him a hard slap on the back. Bull turns in mild curiosity, like a fly lighted on him.

 “Do _not_ put me in that position,” Dorian hisses at him, pointing a finger in his face.

 Bull smiles, which is infuriating. “What position? Sit down, have a drink.”

 “You’re well aware I’m already in the bag!”

 The dwarven bartender pauses and gives him a look. “So he's drinking, or not?”

 “No!”

 Bull tugs on his armor, pulling him into the seat next to him. “Alright, alright.”

 The bartender shakes his head and leaves.

 “Don’t take your frustration with me out on Cullen,” Dorian says, placing a palm face-down on the bar.

 “Are we calling him _Cullen_ now?”

 “Respond to what I actually said, for once.”

 “Ah, you never let me have any fun. Listen, I’m not taking anything out on anyone. You weren’t aware of this, but our precious commander made a tactical mistake, and he knows it. And for the record, I wasn’t even sure you were sleeping with him. This whole display confirmed it pretty well, though. You wouldn’t last five minutes in Seheron.”

 “Not if _you_ were hunting me down, no.”

 “Aww, I’m flattered.”

 “Take it less as flattery and more as a testament to just how angry you make me.”

 “It’s a compliment either way. Inspiring strong emotions in people is a gift, eh?”

 They fall silent. Dorian drums his fingers on the bar.

 “I’m wondering something,” Bull says.

 “Oh? Are you?"

 “How do you two bottoms get anything worthwhile done in the bedroom?”

 Dorian socks him in the shoulder. He shrugs it off, laughing.

 “I’m just saying,” Bull says. “I was pretty sure had him pegged from day one -”

 “Enough! Not that it’s any of your business, but he rose quite admirably to the task.”

 Bull snorts. “No offense, but I’ll believe that when I see it. Is this thing serious?”

 Dorian bites the inside of his lip. “We'll see,” he says.

 “Hey, if it goes south. We joke around about this, but you know my door’s always open…”

 He falls quiet. Dorian leans over and briefly kisses him. It seems to surprise both of them. The meeting of their lips feels bittersweet, like they’re putting something to rest. Dorian wonders if they’ll ever flirt again like they did before, after this.

 He thinks of Cullen standing in the corner a few minutes ago, very decidedly not looking at him, and he knows where he has to go.

 “Goodnight, Bull,” he says, sliding off his stool.

 He’s up the stairs and over the battlements swiftly. He doesn’t run into anyone he knows. Maybe Skyhold is quiet tonight, or maybe it’s later than he thinks.

 In his head, he’s replaying Cullen’s _“who’s we?”,_ wondering how much of the bitter sentiment behind it was embarrassment, how much was something else.

 Cullen’s door is locked and he knocks, two hard raps that hurt his cold-chapped knuckles. He holds one hand with the other and green magic surges from both palms, twisting through his fingers, healing even the smallest abrasions and leaving the skin smooth and new.

 A bleary-eyed Cullen opens the door. He’s already in his smalls.

 “Hello,” he says, leaning in the doorway, smiling at Dorian’s presence. Dorian’s chest aches at the sight of someone who is so genuinely glad to see him.

 “I wanted to come talk to you,” Dorian says, coming inside. They’re bathed only in dim moonlight. Cullen lights a candle on his desk and scratches the back of his neck.

 “So I suppose Bull knows about us?” he says. His voice is soft.

 “He saw…” Dorian pulls his armor away from his throat to display the hickey. “This, and put two and two together.”

 Cullen’s mouth makes a round o and he sits down against his desk, legs stretched out in front of him. “Sorry about that.”

 “Don’t be. _I_ wished to apologize, actually.”

 “Is it… Were you involved with him? Not to pry, just… trying to get a read of the field.”

 There’s a note of sadness in his voice, resignation, disappointment. It rings horribly in Dorian’s ears.

 “No,” he says, and steps closer to Cullen, closer and closer, until he’s standing between Cullen’s legs, “there was nothing there except a maybe.”

 Dorian kisses him. His stubble scratches Dorian’s cheek. The kiss deepens and they press eagerly against each other, desperate for touch. He can feel Cullen’s heart beating swiftly under his thin cotton shirt. Cullen threads his hands through Dorian’s hair and cradles the back of his skull. He draws away from Dorian’s lip and kisses his face, the bridge of his nose, his cheeks and forehead, finally pressing his mouth to Dorian’s hairline and breathing in deeply.

 “I thought there may have been more there than I realized,” Cullen mutters. “And I…”

 Dorian moves back from him a little so they can look at each other.

 “Honestly? I felt sick at the thought.”

 “Of me with him?”

 “Yes.” He sighs. Dorian smooths his hand over Cullen's shoulder.

 “However… I mean… I shouldn’t put that on you. We’re at war, anything could happen. Absolutely no reason for me to speak so seriously.”

 “Or all the more reason to. Why not be honest at the end of the world?”

 Cullen lets out a quiet laugh. “Yes. Well.”

 Dorian begins to unclip his armor, and once he has enough undone he shimmies out of it and kicks it to the side. He only wears bottoms under his armor. Cullen’s hands come to rest on his hips and Dorian takes one in his own, laces their fingers together and presses Cullen’s palm to his own heart, wanting Cullen to feel how quickly his heart is beating.

 “You still owe me that drink,” Dorian says.

 “Do I,” Cullen says absent-mindedly, rubbing his thumb over Dorian’s nipple. That usually doesn’t do much for him, but something about Cullen’s touch charges his body wherever his firm hands land.

 “You really care for me,” Dorian murmurs.

 “Yes? I thought -” Cullen sounds embarrassed. “I thought I was making that painfully obvious.”

 Dorian strokes his hair. “Sometimes I have to hear these things a few times before they sink in.”

 He can tell Cullen is in some pain from withdrawals. Spirit magic flows freely from his fingers before that thought has even completed itself in his mind. Cullen jerks in fear and surprise, his eyes flashing, and then he relaxes. Dorian quickly apologizes.

 “No, no - it’s alright,” Cullen says. After a moment, he adds “thank you.”

 There’s a stretch of silence.

 “I’m trying to think of you,” Dorian says, “with another woman, or another man. I’m finding it rather unpleasant.”

 Cullen looks up at him. “So... do we both want each other to ourselves? I don’t know if I can even ask you for that. What right do I have?”

 “You have as much right as I do in the reverse,” Dorian says. It comes out stronger than he means it to. “It’s a mutually made decision.”

 “And what else comes along with this decision? Weekly outings, gifts?”

 Dorian laughs. “Are you asking to court me, Commander?”

 “Nothing as stodgy as that.”

 Dorian musses his hair and clucks at him. “And what if I _want_ to be courted?”

 “What does that even involve? Shouldn’t _you_ know? I certainly don’t.”

 “Not when it’s between two men fighting a war together. I suppose I could ask Josephine.”

 “Maker - does she know about the two of us?”

 “The Inquisitor and I discussed it at length, so I would expect so.”

 Cullen groans and leans his head against Dorian’s stomach. Dorian chuckles and draws circles on his back with his fingertips.

 “We just can’t let Cassandra know, or she’ll start getting that _‘Lady Andraste preserve us all from the wicked magister via my sword’_ look in her eyes again like when I first joined up with you all.”

 “Oh, yes, we had several talks about you then.”

 “I could have guessed. Who sided with the Herald?”

 “Leliana did. And Josephine said it would be useful to have more people around who understood aspects of noble procedure.”

 “Smart of her. But you didn’t take my side?”

 “I’m afraid I didn’t. I was already a bit taken with you, and terrified of anyone sussing that out. I would just nod and scowl when Cassandra voiced her concerns.”

 “What a coward!”

 “Ouch... A bit of one, I’ll admit.”

 Dorian plays with his hair. “In regard to to the topic at hand…”

 Cullen wraps his arms around Dorian and pulls him even closer, sliding a hand over the waistband of his breeches and gently squeezing his ass and thigh. “Yes, about that,” he says, voice muffled by Dorian’s torso.

 “I’d like to be more than lovers, and I’d like to be more than friends, as well.” He takes a deep breath. “Forgive all my dancing around. This is unfamiliar territory for me.”

 Cullen smiles. "As it is for me."

 “Good, I like when the fumbling is mutual.”

 Cullen laughs and continues to pull at him, seeming to crave a deeper closeness. Dorian closes his eyes, enjoying his touch. Then he pushes Cullen down against his own desk, drawing a finger up the side of his jaw and looking into his eyes.

 Cullen shoves a few books off his desk with his arm and pulls himself up further. Dorian follows until Cullen is on his back against the length of the desk and Dorian is on his hands and knees, hovering above him.

 He yanks the string keeping Cullen’s pants on his waist and slides them down to half thigh, then ducks his head and wraps his mouth around his cock. Cullen lets out a sharp gasp. He’s hard. Dorian briefly wonders how long that’s been the case.

 He works Cullen over with his mouth, enjoying the little sounds Cullen makes and peeking up at him occasionally, watching him rub at his eyes with the back of his hand and call softly for the Maker and bite his lip. Feeling his muscles tense and relax and tense again. The thrill of realizing precome is leaking from Cullen and taking him deeper in response, sucking him harder. Cullen, still a little tipsy, sucking in air like there isn’t enough of it. Cullen, coming in his mouth, digging his fingernails into Dorian’s forearm, arching his back. Cullen.

 Dorian swallows without even thinking about it.

 “Maker,” Cullen sighs. He gleams with sweat in the candlelight. “C’mere…”

 Dorian slides up so they’re face to face and they kiss eagerly.

 “You’re very good at that,” Cullen mumbles.

 “Of course,” Dorian says, and he lies on Cullen’s chest, listening to him breathe.

They grow so comfortable lying there that they fall asleep briefly. Dorian is jarred awake by Cullen sitting up and firmly wrapping his arm around him as he does, so he doesn’t roll off of the desk entirely.

 “Let’s go to bed,” Cullen says, and Dorian grumbles in assent. He leans over to blow out the candle, rolls gracefully off the desk, picks his armor up and follows him up the ladder.

 They fall into bed together, weary, both still stinking faintly of wine. Dorian can’t burrow deeply under the covers enough to ward off the chill that’s sunk into his bones from lying asleep on the desk for half of an hour or so. Cullen wraps himself around Dorian and he traps the heat somewhat. Dorian kisses him above his lip, on the long gash of a scar he has there.

 Cullen runs a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice clouded with sleep. “I forgot... didn’t get you off, did I?”

 “Tomorrow,” Dorian says, and yawns. "I really would like to be fucked by you on that desk...”

 “It’s a date,” Cullen says, barely audible. In the darkness, Dorian can tell from his voice that he’s smiling.

 “Well if it’s a _date_ , I expect dinner.”

 “I’ll bring you around the dining hall afterward for a grand feast of blanched turnips.”

 “Lovely, I’ll look forward to it all day.”

 Cullen chuckles. “I expect I'll be thinking about the first bit all day.”

 “What, the desk?”

 “Yes. Now that I’m aware of how sturdy it is.”

 Dorian laughs against Cullen’s throat. “By all means, take it to its limits. You were almost being a bit gentle with me the other night.”

 “Gentle? _Really?”_ He sounds genuinely befuddled.

 “Yes, really!”

 “I’ll take that into serious consideration.”

 “Please do.”

 “All day tomorrow, I’ll take it into consideration...” Cullen’s voice rumbles in his throat. “Um, just to inform you, I’m getting up at the rooster for a morning jog with my troops.”

 “I see. Then I’ll get up with you... and walk to my quarters, and go back to bed.”

 “Good man,” Cullen says, with mock seriousness, and they fall into a comfortable silence holding each other.

 


	4. 4

Cullen finds his mind wanders easily, these days.

Between the fog of lyrium withdrawal - which is better some days than others, hardly noticeable one hour and a desperate painful slog the next - and his thoughts of Dorian, he feels like he's floating. He’s as thorough and dogged as ever, and he still belongs fully to his work, but he feels somewhat detached from it. Like it’s not his hands sorting through papers, not quite his voice carrying on the wind as he calls orders, not his lower back aching at the end of the day as he removes his armor.

Dorian comes in and out of his head throughout the day. Sometimes the image of his face or his body, sometimes flashes of other senses. He’ll get the memory of how soft and thick his hair is between Cullen’s fingers, or he’ll be walking through the courtyard to pray in the small Chantry there, get a noseful of arbor blessing and be reminded of the smell of Dorian when he returns from the countryside. When he asked Dorian if there was any particular reason he was associating the two, he laughed and began to empty his robe pockets. All kinds of fragrant lovely flowers, picked by him and kept alive by his necromancy.

“You know, our requisition officers like to make practical use of those,” Cullen said, in his best mockery of a stern templar voice. And then, laughing, he pulled Dorian onto his lap and nuzzled his back. Up close and out of his robes, he doesn’t smell like flowers, but instead the spicy sweet scent of the oils Tevinter men use. Cullen likes that smell more.

“Yes, well,” Dorian said. “In wartime, one must do _something_ to keep their morale up, no?”

He slid sideways on Cullen’s lap, turning to face him, and tucked a dawn lotus behind his ear. Cullen sneezed.

They don’t spend as much time with each other as they like. Even when they’re both at the castle and unoccupied, and the chilly, twinkling blanket of night has rolled through Skyhold, Dorian is an owl to Cullen’s rooster and tends to talk and booze the early hours of the evening way. By the time Dorian is ready to retire to quarters, Cullen is already yawning and feeling his eyelids start to fall, unbidden.

“Old man,” Dorian says one night, accusatory, but he laughs after he says it. Cullen notices after that, Dorian begins to show up to his office earlier and earlier in the evening, and they spend long hours together there. He likes to sit on his desk and prop his feet up in Cullen’s lap while they talk. Sometimes Cullen half-heartedly begins to massage one of those feet, despite the pain in his muscles and joints after another long day without lyrium. He's rewarded accordingly with attention from Dorian’s soft mouth or skilled hands. The man is nothing if not fair.

On a particularly chilly afternoon, Cullen is bustling over the battlements on his way to the war room. He runs into Varric and looks down at him, only to hear an annoyed scoff and look back up to see the retreating back of Garrett Hawke.

“Alright,” Cullen says, trying not to let his lip curl.

Varric watches Hawke go, then turns back to Cullen. “What did you expect?”

“A hello, maybe. This is an organization of professionals, not some back corner of the Hanged Man.”

“Ah, come on. Let him have his old grievances. By the way…”

Cullen shifts his weight. “Yes? I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

“No, you’re not. I just saw Leliana, she’s calling for a postponement to your meeting. She got a raven back from Lydes, but the letter was part one of two. She’s waiting on the second half.”

Cullen sighs. “I suppose I do have a moment, then.”

Varric squints up at him. For all of the cold, it’s a very sunny day. Cullen steps to the left, putting his back to the sun, in an attempt to give the dwarf some shade. Varric laughs.

“Very civilized of you,” he says. “I’m just wondering about you and Sparkler.”

Cullen feels a rush of nerves, defensiveness, and the immutable pride in your partner that comes with being half of a twosome.

Not proud enough to show his hand, though.

“Why,” he says, “so you can write a sordid novel about it, which will then get ripped off by some Antivan hack so Leliana can again waste our time having her Crow friend murder them?”

“Can’t write a novel about something that’s in baby stages,” Varric says. “Although if I do start on something, I’ll make sure to show you my notes.”

“Do no such thing, dwarf.”

“Show you my notes?”

“Any of what you just said.”

“Sometimes, I just wonder how much you two really know about each other.”

“That is absolutely none of your business,” Cullen says, moving to go. Varric stops him with a hand on his breastplate.

“I’m just saying,” he says. “Everybody here has some kind of past. Most of us are looking to atone for something. Don’t use somebody else to do that.”

Rage rises in Cullen’s chest, then genuine hurt. He thinks Varric must be able to see that on his face, because he softens and steps back.

“I care for Dorian,” Cullen says, slowly and firmly. “He was a friend before he was… what he is to me now. And, Varric, If I wanted to atone for my attitude toward mages, I would be drawn to a mage who had really suffered at the hands of the templars, no?”

“And who around here fits that description exactly, except Hawke?”

Cullen lets out a sharp laugh and wrinkles his nose.

“I like this new Curly, the one with a sense of humor,” Varric says. “Keep it up. Might have to retire that nickname, too.”

Cullen runs a hand through his hair. “You might,” he admits.

“Wavy? Pinky? I’ll think of something.”

“If you ever call me _Pinky_ in front of another living soul, I’ll have the Inquisitor on an urgent trip to the Fallow Mire with every rogue in the company.”

“Euugh. Okay, you win on that one. See you around… Commander.”

As he walks away, Cullen feels strangely lighter of spirit.

He had been afraid, to some extent, that what Varric accused him of was true. Now that it’s been dragged out in the open, he realizes his response, his bone-deep offense at the very idea, was utterly genuine.

He is unnerved by Dorian’s magic still, when it catches him by surprise, but that’s a flinch learned by years of training. More often than not he’s becoming more and more fascinated by it. How it can ease his day-to-day pain, how it can help him feel sensations he never has before, how it can make sex easier and more tender. How it can feel really very _good._

 

/

 

It’s a crisp afternoon and Cullen is in a pleasant mood. His withdrawals are at a minimum; he woke up with a blissfully clear mind, birds chirping in the eaves, and Dorian is due back today.

Cassandra had noticed a pallor in him the day before and instructed him to take a morning off. He woke up an entire hour later than usual and laid in bed, thinking about nothing in particular. Just being at uneasy peace with himself.

He finally makes his way downstairs to take a look at the letters that have been left for him in the last few hours. As he sorts through them Dorian bursts in the door.

“I assume you haven’t eaten,” he says, setting down a basket on Cullen’s desk. Cullen flicks aside the square of fabric laid across the top to reveal an assortment of fancy pastries.

“Josephine insisted I bring this to you. She says you look peaked lately...”

“I’m better today, but I’ll be sure to thank her.” Cullen sets down his handful of letters and moves toward Dorian, pulling him close, kissing him.

“Hello,” Dorian murmurs against his lips.

Cullen draws back slightly and kisses him on his hairline. “Good afternoon.”

“Is it?”

“So far, anyway.”

He steps backward, bringing Dorian with him, and sits in his chair. Dorian settles himself on his lap. Cullen slides his hands over Dorian’s thighs, squeezing and groping.

“Missed me, have you?” Dorian murmurs.

He’d been gone with the Inquisitor to the Exalted Plains for a stretch of a week. Cullen had, in fact, greatly missed him. Dorian brightens up all the little corners of his life.

“Of course. And you me?”

“Actually, I met a lovely fellow in the Dalish camp and forgot all about you. He trains halla. We’re to be wed in Cassus. You are _not_ invited.”

Cullen smiles. “So you did, then.”

Dorian smiles back. “You know, what I really miss is our chess games.”

“I do as well, but I haven’t been able to find the time. You see, the time I used to set aside for that, I’ve now set aside for our _other_ extracurriculars.”

“Any reason, though, that we can’t do both at once?”

 

/

 

They enjoy two weeks together as the Inquisitor’s team waits for Cullen’s troops to finish an excavation in the Plains. For the first time, Cullen hopes his men work more slowly than usual.

They eventually do complete their mission, and Dorian is off again, leaving in the middle of the night. He wakes Cullen by pressing a kiss to his forehead. Cullen mumbles sleepily.

“Shh, don’t get up, but I’m going,” Dorian says. “I’ll see you soon... amatus.”

He says the last word with some hesitation. Cullen knows enough about Tevene to know what it means. He pretends to still be dumb with sleep, though he’s fully awake now and his whole body is humming with excitement. He reaches up and brings Dorian to him, kissing him on the lips. Dorian smiles through the kiss and then sweeps away into the night. Cullen hears his feet on the steps of the ladder, and then nothing but the wind whistling through the hole in his ceiling.

 

/

 

Cullen is out leading a drill some days later when a messenger runs to him, bringing a raven’s scroll.

“We’ve just got this in,” she pants, handing it to him. “One was sent to the Lady Seeker as well…”

Cullen unfurls it. The messenger looks pale, and his nerves spike.

It’s written in the Inquisitor’s hand.

_Dorian badly injured. Wyvern attack, hit in the abdomen. Returning with mission only partly finished - wyvern was killed, did not find nest. Have Solas prepared to minister to Dorian as soon as we return_

Cullen’s heart clenches and he feels blood rush to his head.

“Well?” he demands loudly of the messenger. She flinches. “Take this to Solas! Right away!”

She turns and begins to run for the castle. “Yes, commander,” she yells over her shoulder.

Cullen draws a ragged breath and turns to watch his troops. Nothing he can do right now. He runs his hands through his hair.

Dorian must be in a bad way to not be able to heal himself. He digs his nails into his palm, fighting that thought back.

 

/

 

He waits in his office. He’s handed updates on the situation in Orlais and reads the same sentences five, ten, twenty times in a row, trying desperately to comprehend them. He does function somehow - he signs orders, refines strategy as new information rolls in. He doesn’t let on to his troops that he is in absolute turmoil.

At some point long after the sun has gone down, his door creaks open. He looks up. The Inquisitor is standing in the doorway. She’s white as a sheet. Her hands are bloody, her robes are splattered in it.

Cullen is on his feet instantly. He knocks a candle off his desk, it rolls across the floor. Evelyn walks over, places it back on his desk, lights the flame again with a snap of her fingers.

“Is he dead?” Cullen asks. His voice comes from a very low point in his stomach.

“No, no!” she exclaims. “No, Cullen, he made it here alive. I sent someone to tell you we’d arrived -”

He heaves a sigh. “Thank the Maker. No one came.”

“It was perhaps not even twenty minutes ago. They may have been delayed somehow. I did all I could for him in the carriage. I kept him stable, at least. He’s far more talented at spirit magic than I am. He’s in good hands, now, with Solas. After all, Solas saved me from...”

She lifts the hand with the mark and smiles a sad, small smile.

Cullen realizes his own hands are trembling, and looks down at them.

“Oh, Commander,” Evelyn says. She comes to his side, puts a firm hand on his shoulder. Cullen leans against his desk.

“Don't stay here alone. Come sit with me,” she says.

“I have to work,” he says numbly. “I have - the situation in Orlais is very bad, Inquisitor. Worse still just in the days since you’ve been away.”

“I know, I know. Josephine has informed me. But no one will slay the Empress in the next hour. Come sit with Varric and I, we’re waiting in the tavern for news.”

“Where is Solas working on him?”

“When we made it to the castle, Bull carried him to his quarters. Solas was already there waiting and started immediately.”

“Yes,” Cullen says. “I’ll come. Tell me, what happened?”

“It was a wyvern, as I said... Bull and I were suppressing it between each other, on either side, keeping it engaged while Dorian and Varric gave support fire. But in the end it became desperate, got past us and charged them. It knocked Varric out of the way with its tail… He's only got bruises. Dorian's barrier spell had just worn off a moment prior, and it gored him in the side. He got in the final shot to kill the thing, injured as he was -”

Cullen puts up a hand to stop her. He neatens up his desk, blows out the candles and follows her out the door.

 

/

 

Varric looks surprised to see him. “Commander,” he says, and motions to the barkeep, who produces a tankard of ale.

“I shouldn’t be drinking,” he says with a heavy sigh.

“I give you permission,” the Inquisitor says, taking a seat.

They wait for several hours. Time passes with excruciating slowness. Cullen takes maybe one small sip of the ale every half hour, just to have something to do with his hands when fiddling with his armor and a stray bolt he found on the bar becomes tiresome.

Eventually Varric turns to Cullen. “Curly, listen,” he says. ”The wound wasn't as deep as we thought at first. It looked a lot worse than it is. I’ve seen people gut-shot before, by arrows or magic… it looks like hell and it bleeds like crazy, but it’s not usually fatal.”

“Thank you,” Cullen says, in a surly voice that surprises even him. “As commander of an army, this is news to me.”

Varric opens his mouth and the Inquisitor gives him a look that seems to quiet him.

Cullen thinks he sees her mouth “ _let him be_ ”.

The door to the tavern opens and they all swivel.

Solas walks in. “He lives,” he calls out, sounding exhausted.

Relief sweeps over Cullen like a wave of magic. He balls his hands into fists and rests his head against the bar, breathing properly for the first time in half a day.

Sera comes crashing down the stairs like a bat out of hell. “Did I hear you say Dorian’s alright?” she demands.

“Yes,” Solas says, folding his arms.

“Can we see him?” the Inquisitor says.

“I don’t see why not. He was stirring to consciousness when I left him. I have a trainee of mine sitting with him - one of the Dalish who joined up after Haven.”  

Cullen stands.

The Inquisitor looks at him. “Will you accompany me, Commander?” she says.

He looks at her, confused. “Yes… of course.”

When they’re back out in the night air, on their way to the castle, she leans in. “Of course I’ll let you see him alone first,” she says softly. “But even amidst a crisis you must remember, very few people know about this.”

“I suppose I've been somewhat careless.”

“I understand.” She falls silent as they pass a few visiting nobles who are out for a nighttime stroll. Cullen and the Inquisitor each give a friendly nod of acknowledgement.

“The only problem,” she continues, “is people like _that_ …” she jerks her thumb at their departing backs as they begin to climb the stairs to the castle. “There were others in the tavern, not just my team, who I trust. I care about Dorian, I don’t wish to see him further disparaged and I don’t wish to see your reputation harmed. You have enough to worry about…”

They both fall silent again as they walk through the main hall.

When they reach Dorian’s door, Cullen is suddenly apprehensive. He sighs and rubs at the back of his neck. “Maybe we should just let him rest.”

The Inquisitor begins to say something.

The Dalish elf opens the door, however, and seems surprised to see him. “Commander! How strange you’re right here. He’s been asking for you, for some reason -”

That settles his mind and Cullen thanks her and moves her aside, stepping into the room.

Dorian is surrounded by candles, likely to make the delicate work of healing easier for Solas. He’s covered in silk sheets and blankets only up to his waist. Great swaths of bandage cover his left side. He looks exhausted - but not pale, Cullen notices with great relief.

“Goodness,” Dorian cries. He sounds amused. “All this fuss over a scratch.”

Cullen laughs and carefully takes a seat on the edge of his bed. “This from the man who positively _howled_ at me when I accidentally pinched his pinky finger in my desk drawer? How are you feeling?”

“Oh, you know how it is. Big hurts are the ones you must be cavalier about. Besides, I’m not really in any pain. Solas had some fun experimenting with herbs before he abandoned his patient, it appears.”

“That’s good to hear,” Cullen murmurs.

“Less talk about me, hmm? Especially when _you_ look like someone just fished you out of the sea after several days.”

“I worried,” Cullen admits.

“Of course you did! Pacing the floor? Tearing your hair out?”

“Not quite all that. I was with the Inquisitor and Varric, so some decorum was in order.”

“Oh, those bastards,” Dorian murmurs fondly. “I hope they’re half-dead of guilt and worry. Bull too.” He takes Cullen’s hand. “I really am all right, Commander.”

“I’ll believe that when you’re up and beating me at chess,” Cullen says, squeezing his hand.

Someone knocks on the door, three quiet raps of their knuckles. Cullen leans over and kisses Dorian, who weakly lifts a hand and runs it through his hair.

“Bring your set tomorrow, in the evening,” Dorian murmurs. “We can play bedside. I’ll sleep all day to keep up my spirits. Ensure yet another bitter defeat for you.”

Cullen brings his lips up to Dorian’s hairline and kisses him there too. “We’ll see about that,” he says.

Another knock comes, this one harder, and he departs.

Outside the Inquisitor is standing, looking chagrined, next to a steely-eyed Cassandra.

“Commander, a word?” she says.

He nods.

As they leave down the hall, the Inquisitor slips into Dorian’s room behind Cullen.

Cassandra brings him to the deserted armory, where they try to have most of their private talks. At night no one is wandering around in there, and during the day it’s too loud for their conversations to be eavesdropped on.

“I intercepted a messenger,” she says. “For you. He said he had been instructed to _immediately_ come to you with news of our Tevinter’s condition.”

Cullen does his best impression of a composed person. “And you stopped him? He never made it to my office.”

“What? Maker, no... He must have thought I would come to tell you myself. He seemed very green.”

“So many of them are.”

“I worry, sometimes, that we should turn the youngest away at the gate. But if they’re of age, what can one do? We are fighting a most difficult war.”

Cullen paces around, rubbing at his jaw. He’s in even more need of a shave than usual. “You brought me here for a word.”

“I did. How are you feeling? You look awful.”

“I was better this morning.”

“You were. Leliana remarked on that.”

“Do you all compare notes on me?” 

“Indeed we do,” Cassandra says simply. “Tell me, Cullen. Why was a messenger _bolting_ across the square to deliver news about Ser Pavus to you?”

“Bolting, was he?” Cullen wanders away from her, looking around, running his hand over the hilts of several swords that are laid out on a table in a perfect row. He imagines them in the hands of his youngest troops and feels a familiar pang of worry and trepidation.

“Cullen,” Cassandra says sharply.

He turns. “Dorian has become a close friend of mine.”

“He is more than that.”

“According to who?”

“You do me a disservice, Cullen. I am a Seeker of Truth, not a drunk buffoon in a back alley of Kirkwall. I see things, and hear things, and I know you better than you seem to think.”

He comes toward her and she grasps his shoulder, much like the Inquisitor did. He folds his arms.

“I’ve done a silly thing,” he murmurs.

“Romance is not silly,” she says, surprising him. “Sharing your life is not silly. I’m concerned about your health, and perhaps your choice of paramour.”

“You’ve traveled with Dorian,” Cullen says. “How can you think badly of him? He’s all bluster.”

Cassandra drops her hand. “He and I have had our... disagreements, but I know he’s a good man. My objections have very little to do with his character, and everything to do with his origins.”

“He can’t help _that_ , any more than I can help being a farmboy,” Cullen says. He’s aware his tone is mulish and unbecoming of his station. He steps away from her and resumes his pacing. “What has he done so wrong? He realized his mentor was growing unhinged years before the disaster at Redcliffe. He did everything he could to stop it. As for me, I was too blinded by my fear of mages to see what Meredith had become until it was far too late.”

“Cullen,” Cassandra says. Her voice is unusually soft and sympathetic.

“I have deeper feelings for him than I would like to have,” Cullen says. “Not because I think him unworthy or I’m afraid of what people might say, but because I have a great duty on my hands, one that is precarious already.”

“I can always find you a replacement. You are always free to step down. Not a soul in this castle would blame you, and they would have me to answer to if they did.”

They smile at each other.

“I’ve been feeling improved lately,” Cullen confesses. “But I’m worse when he’s not here. Half of the battle of overcoming lyrium is… it’s willpower. It’s reached its tendrils into my mind. I need happiness to battle it back, to flush it out. It’s why I do things I’ve never done before, why I am friendly in a way I never was as a young templar. I recognize now how important it is to have friends to hold onto and things look forward to. It’s the best weapon I have.”

“And yet he is steadfast at the Inquisitor’s side,” Cassandra says. “A dangerous place to be.”

“Yes. Well. Maybe I can speak with her. Maker knows he’ll have some time to heal from this, and after that…”

“This is the territory I am afraid of,” she says. “Sidelining one of our most talented mages, for personal reasons?”

Cullen runs his hand through his hair. “We do need to complete our research into the elven artifacts in the Exalted Plains,” he said. “Dorian has been along for the tougher engagements, but Solas is a more appropriate choice for combing through dungeons. And who knows how their findings may aid us in addressing this elven uprising.”

Cassandra nods and starts toward the door. “Cullen,” she calls back.

“Yes?”

She turns and looks him up and down, and bites her lip. “Be cautious,” she says.

“Always, my lady.”

He gives her a little salute. Cassandra smiles and leaves the armory.

Cullen stays for a minute, breathing in the familiar smell of smithery, not wanting to return to his lonely bed.


End file.
